


counting

by foolondahill17



Series: things Dean doesn't tell Sam [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester is a Good Bro, Gen, John Winchester Tries, Muddling Through, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Weechesters, bb Sammy, he really does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: He is one-two-three-four years old, but soon he will be one-two-three-four-five years old. And Sammy is one-two-three-four-five-six-seven months old. And Mommy has been gone for one-two-three weeks.A tiny moment: Dean, Sammy, and John a little while after the fire.
Series: things Dean doesn't tell Sam [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1506398
Comments: 12
Kudos: 182





	counting

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: young children dealing with trauma

He is one-two-three-four years old, but soon he will be one-two-three-four-five years old. And Sammy is one-two-three-four-five-six-seven months old. And Mommy has been gone for one-two-three weeks. 

Dean is good at counting. There are one-two-three-four buttons on his pajamas and Sammy has one-two-three-four-five teeth in his pink, wet gums. He likes to chew on Dean’s sleeve, so now the fabric is always damp and smells like Sammy’s sweet baby breath, of mushy bananas and applesauce. 

There are two beds and one rickety old crib in the cramped motel room. Sammy’s sleeping in the crib, all alone and _tiny tiny tiny still still still_ in his brown bear sleeper. Dean wants Sammy to be in the big bed with him, safe up against Dean’s chest where he can feel his little brother squirm and feel Sammy’s warm breath on his neck. 

The blankets are itchy. It’s too late in the day to still be in bed, but there’s nowhere else to sit in the tiny room, except the hard, lonely chairs by the big window, but it’s too cold by the window. It’s snowy outside. Dean thinks he can remember playing out in the snow, too far away to count back, but now he can’t imagine playing outside. It’s too cold. Cold burns. 

When it was warm out, Daddy left, and Mommy made Dean peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crust cut off. But Daddy came back after one-two-three-four days, and Dean wonders how many days he has to wait before Mommy comes back and they get to go home. It’s already been more than ten days, that’s more days than Dean can fit on his fingers, more days than he can even fit on his toes. 

Daddy’s standing by the window, jacket crinkling as he makes Dean lunch, but he’s doing it wrong; Dean can already tell. 

Daddy doesn’t know that the crusts have to come off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, that he has to spread peanut butter on one slice of bread and jelly on the other, not dump it all one on top of the other, and he doesn’t understand when he hands Dean a sandwich on a paper plate. Dean can see the _not-understanding_ in Daddy’s big, dark eyes. Dean wants Daddy to understand, but Dean can’t make the words come out of his lips. He can’t tell Daddy that Dean can’t eat the sandwich like this, can’t eat it because it’s _wrong_. 

Dean can’t say it, though, because there’s something inside Dean’s throat that doesn’t let him. Something hard and pointy that tastes like smoke. Dean’s chest hurts and his eyes sting. 

And Daddy asks what’s wrong. “Deano. Deano, just _tell me_. Just tell me, buddy.”

“Dammit,” says Daddy, and that’s a bad word. An angry word. And Dean knows his Daddy’s talking about _him_ , and Dean doesn’t want his Daddy to use angry words at Dean, so Dean curls into a tight ball inside the itchy blankets and he’s shaking all over because it’s _cold cold cold. Hot hot hot. Burn burn burn._

“Dean,” Daddy’s voice is quieter now, scared and quick like it was when he told Dean to _take Sammy and run run run._ “Deano, buddy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby. Daddy’s not mad at you. I’m sorry.” Daddy’s hands are heavy on Dean’s shoulders. Daddy smells sour-sweet, yucky like the bitter brown water he drinks from glass bottles. His face is scratchy. Dean doesn’t like it, but there’s nowhere else to be in the tiny motel room, so he curls into Daddy’s lap and tries to stop shaking. 

That’s when Sammy starts to cry. 

Dean snaps up so quickly the back of his head hits Daddy’s chin, and Daddy uses another angry word, but muffled and quick as he tries to catch Dean’s head with his big hand to check if there’s a bump, but Dean ducks out of the way and slips off the bed. He pads across the small space between the bed and the crib, leaving his blanket behind so the cool air prickles at his skin under his thin pajamas. His head hurts a little where it hit Daddy’s chin, but that doesn’t matter because Sammy’s crying. 

Sammy’s crying and rolling around in the crib and maybe Sammy’s cold or hungry or scared. Maybe Sammy had a nightmare like Dean has: full of fire and yelling and big black smoke that smells like the time Mommy burned up the hotdogs. Dean reaches through the bars of the crib to get to Sammy, but he can’t reach, so he shuts his eyes and presses his lips together, and screams screams screams but he can’t make the noise come out. 

“I got him,” Daddy says, reaching into the crib over Dean and grabbing Sammy. “I got him, Dean.” 

Daddy scoops up Sammy with one arm and holds him against his shoulder. He sits on the edge of the bed, so Dean can get closer to Sammy, and Dean holds out his hands to take Sammy (take Sammy and run run run), but Daddy huff-laughs through his nose and shakes his head. 

“Come here, buddy,” he tells Dean, and pulls Dean onto his knee, hugs him close and tight to his rough shirt that smells like oil, and presses a kiss to the throbbing nob on the top of Dean’s head. “I’ve got you both. It’s okay,” Daddy says into Dean’s hair. 

Sammy’s stopped crying. He hiccups one-two-three times, turns his head, and blinks sleepy, tear-tracked eyes at Dean. Dean wiggles closer and nuzzles into Sammy’s powder-clean skin. He breathes deep and closes his eyes. 

_Got you,_ he thinks as hard as he can, and hopes Sammy will be able to hear it. _Got you, Sammy, and it’s okay._


End file.
